“I do,” she replied, proudly; “I will not accept charity from a Mainwaring, — not even from you!”

“Very well; if that is your decision, I bid you adieu,” and before she could reply, he was gone.

He passed swiftly down the corridor, his head bowed slightly, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, but his step had an elasticity it had not possessed in weeks, and any one passing near him would have heard the single exclamation, “Thank God!”

Upon reaching his carriage, he spoke quickly to the driver, “To the Waldorf at once!” and was borne away by the impatient steeds even more swiftly than he had come.

Meanwhile, within the room which he had just left, the wretched woman, whose falseness and pride had wrought her own undoing, stood listening to the retreating footsteps; she heard them die away in the distance, heard the carriage-wheels roll rapidly down the avenue, then sank upon a low couch with a cry of despair.

“All is over,” she moaned, “and I have failed.  I could not force him to my terms, and I would never yield to his.  I will take charity from no one, least of all from him.  I will be first, or nothing!” and she shivered faintly.

After a tune she arose, and ringing for her maid, ordered a light repast brought to her room, as she would not go down to dinner; “And,” she concluded, “you can have the evening to yourself:  I expect callers, and will not need you.”

An hour later, Richard Hobson crept along the corridor and tapped for admittance.  There was no answer, and cautiously pushing open the door, he entered unbidden, but started back in horror at the sight which met his eyes.  The electric lights had not been turned on, but a few tall wax tapers, in a pair of candelabra upon the mantel, were burning, and in the dim, weird light, Mrs. LaGrange, still elegantly attired for her interview with Harold Mainwaring, lay upon the low couch near the grate, her features scarcely paler than a few hours before, but now rigid in death.  Upon the table beside her, the supper ordered by the maid stood untasted, while on the same table a small vial bearing the label of one of the deadliest of poisons, but empty, told the story.  Underneath the vial was a slip of paper, on which was written,-

“I have staked my highest card — and lost!  The game is done.”

Terror-stricken, Hobson glanced about him, then pausing only long enough to clutch some of the gleaming jewels from the inanimate form, he stealthily withdrew, and, skulking unobserved along the corridors, passed out into the darkness and was gone.

CHAPTER XXII

SECESSION IN THE RANKS